And The Walls Came Tumbling Down
by Reva Arian
Summary: He stared up at her, betrayal crossing his features as if she were the one doing the lying...
1. Chapter 1

_I'm not exactly sure how Fiona came to find out that Michael McBride was actually Michael Westen, but it's fun to pretend. This came to me in a dream and was begging to be written, so I had to indulge my muse. Those who are waiting for "Waiting" to be updated, have no fear. It is slowly but surely in the works. I haven't decided if this story should be included in the "Waiting" verse, but I will let you know when I figure it out. Enjoy!_

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Fiona pulled her gun on him when she saw the first signs of the drug taking effect. His speech had begun to slur and his eyes began to droop, the cup of tea he'd drank from crashing to the ground as he lost control of his fine motor skills. She could tell that he knew something was wrong, the panicked look in his eyes apparent as he slumped to the floor searching for something, anything that could help him. When she brushed the cool barrel of the gun against his temple he stared up at her, betrayal crossing his features.

Betrayal. As if _she_ was the one doing the lying. As if it was she who assimilated herself into _his _life under an alias in order to gain access to IRA secrets. And now, come to find that he was an American, a spy no less.

He'd been good, though. Believable. He looked the part, fair skin with a smattering of freckles across his nose and eyes that reminded her of the way morning mist shrouded blue skies at daybreak. He'd even had that Irish nonchalance that so many tried to portray and was able to knock back a pint of Guinness and curse up a storm with the rest of them. He'd whispered passionate words to her in Gaelic when they'd made love the first time, something no other man she'd been with had done. This made her heart clench and her anger seethe and before she knew it she was cocking back the hammer on the revolver, positioning the barrel flush against his skull and pressing so hard that it left a mark.

He talked in his sleep, she'd found out. Three, maybe four times a night she'd awake to him thrashing, murmuring mostly incoherent words under his breath except for when he would call out. No matter the words he spoke, it was clear that they were not spoken in Irish dialect. She watched him closely after that to see if he would give himself away, but he was too good. It wasn't until she'd stood outside the door of his apartment and overheard his phone conversation with whom she thought to be his handler that she had become sure of his disloyalty.

Slipping the muscle relaxants into his tea was the only sure way she could take him down quietly and without a fight. He knew too much now, and she knew that if she didn't kill him then someone else would, but it wouldn't be as humane as she was about to make it. They would surely put him through hell first before taking his life and then forgetting he ever existed. Her way was simpler and showed more mercy than even she would have preferred.

His eyes found hers as she'd cocked the hammer, his hand weakly reaching for hers to find comfort within it. As if they were just going for a stroll, and she wasn't about to redecorate her apartment with skull fragments and brain matter. Her finger tightened against the trigger, and she actually felt tears welling up in her eyes, _tears_ for the pathetic and traitorous excuse of a man who pretended to look at her as if she were the only other woman in the world and whispered sweet nothings into her ear as he screwed her on the ratty mattress in his one-room flat. Sympathy for the man who before her should have been fearing for his life and begging for her to spare him, cowering away from the weapon she had trained on him.

Instead, in his eyes she saw only remorse and, perhaps, acceptance.

"_Fi_." He whispered as he gripped her hand frailly.

Her control waivered, the grip she held on the revolver tightening briefly and pushing it harder into his skin before she released it completely, the metal of the gun making a loud clink on the wooden floor as it slid from her grasp. There was no sigh of relief from him, no thankful gaze, only the quiet but assertive _I'm sorry _he breathed before succumbing to unconsciousness.

She collapsed against his chest, stubbornly allowing herself to cry as she remembered the gentle way he'd swept her hair out of her eyes while she worked on assembling the trigger switch of their last project, the smoldering stare he would give her even if they were talking about something as mundane as the weather, and the way he'd take her hand before she detonated a bomb like he already knew it was her favorite thing in the world. She wept harder as she remembered that, between the ramblings and the quiet, haunting cries of his nightmares, he spoke of her and he'd never looked more at peace than when she'd soothingly run her hand over his face or through his hair as he slept, calming him back into an easy slumber.

It was in that moment that she knew, regardless of their whole relationship being a lie and whether or not his feelings for her were true, she loved him. And that's what made it all the worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**_**My apologies. I had finished this chapter and not remembered that I had until going through it again. Anyway, here it is._**

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Waking up with his hands and feet bound wasn't a new concept to Michael Westen, considering his job description. It wasn't something that happened often (he was good at what he did after all), but occasionally when it did happen he knew how to handle it. Lie still, take stock of your surroundings as best you can while feigning sleep, try to remember the last thing it was that you did, and most of all do not panic. Unless the situation called for a distraction to lure whoever was holding you captive close enough to head-butt while they are checking on the screaming prisoner who, only moments ago, was silent. It worked in a pinch, but one wrong move and it could get you killed.

Now was not that situation. The surface which he laid on was soft, telling him that he was on a bed. He could smell the faint scent of floral shampoo and hear light but deep breathing, indicating that the person lying beside him (and nearly on top of him as the weight of a head on his chest and an arm slung low across his waist indicated) was asleep and most probably female. The occasional jerk of muscles confirmed that it was not a peaceful slumber. He resisted the urge to smirk at the thought that most men would be ecstatic to wake up tied to a bed with a woman nearly on top of them.

He remembered sitting at the small table in Fiona's kitchen. She'd asked him how he'd gotten the scars on his face, and he'd replied that his father had a certain knack for mixing alcohol with parenting. It was the first time he'd used an element from his real life rather than make up something for his cover. He didn't tell her for the sympathy. He could have easily said it was from a number of other things; a fight with some boys in the schoolyard, a fall from a tree. But not from getting backhanded with the hand on which his father wore his thick, heavy wedding ring. And while those were not his exact words, he'd certainly alluded to it. Why he'd told her, he couldn't be sure, but it might have had something to do with the sincere security that she made him feel.

After that, everything was fuzzy. He remembered the sensation of falling, then the sound of a gun being cocked and Fiona's eyes, huge with hurt and anger. _Shit_. He opened his eyes into slits to peek at his surroundings.

While he couldn't be sure how long he was out, the sun that had just begun to illuminate the bedroom was a good tell. A quick glance down revealed the top of Fiona's head against his torso, the movement of his head bringing to life a monster of a headache. His stomach rolled with barely contained nausea. She must have laced his drink with something to knock him out.

Wiggling under the weight of her against his side, Michael tried to get a feel for how deep Fiona's sleep was. When her breathing didn't hitch and she only stirred long enough to bury her head deeper into his chest, he chanced a look up at his bindings. He frowned when he saw that there were zip ties fastening his wrists tightly to the slats in the headboard, making it nearly impossible for him to even move his arms up and down to wear on the plastic. Even a dislocated thumb wouldn't help him, as there was no space between his wrists and the thick wood. A quick jerk to test the headboard's strength let him know that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. The same could be said for his legs.

"Nice try. You don't think I know how to properly secure a person?"

Michael barely managed to stop himself from flinching at Fiona's voice breaking the silence and at the cold tip of the gun barrel that came to rest on his neck.

"I'm confused." He replied, still using his McBride accent until he was sure he couldn't convince Fiona that he was who he'd said, "If I'm your prisoner, then why are we still sharing a bed?"

"You can drop the act now." She nuzzled the tip of the gun along his jaw and he shivered out of reflex at the touch.

"Look, Fiona, I don't know what it is that you think you know, but-" He tried before she pushed away and sat up to face him. In the growing light he could see that she looked pale, her eyes swollen and rimmed with red like she'd been up all night crying. Her hair was tangled, knotted at the ends and spilling haphazardly over one shoulder. She looked beautiful.

Despite the fact that she still trained her weapon on him, he had the urge to push the loose strap of her tank top down her arm and place soft kisses along the top of her shoulder blade and across the prominent curve of her collar bone.

"I heard you on the phone the other day. Talking to Dan."

Michael froze at her words.

"_And_ you have nightmares. I would think it to be a difficult thing to talk like an American in your sleep if you were really an Irishman." This she said sardonically.

"Fi, I-"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you right here." Fiona demanded, cocking the hammer of the gun back and pushing it into his face.

Michael looked at her with a straight face.

"You still haven't answered my question." He pointed out.

Fiona looked away as she explained, "I intended on killing you, so it didn't matter how much muscle relaxant I gave you, as long as it was enough to take you out. I was making sure that you didn't stop breathing in the middle of the night or go into fits." Her thumb smoothed across his hip where her hand still rested underneath the hem of his sweater. She turned to face him with a heavy sigh, the aim of her gun never straying.

An overdose explained the headache and nausea and her head against his chest to listen to him breathing. A hand resting against the skin of his hip was not so easily explained, as fever should not have been an issue and the area was not conducive for feeling for tremors. What were her motives here?

"And you're not my prisoner." She continued. He raised his eyebrows incredulously and tugged at the bindings.

"_That_ is precaution until you answer all of my questions. Like for instance, what is your name?"

"Michael." He had finally dropped the accent, she'd noticed.

"Your real name." She stated flatly. Michael swore he could hear a snarl curl under her tone.

Fiona looked at him expectantly and he groaned under her scrutiny, rolling his eyes, "My name _is_ Michael. It's Michael Westen, and why I am here does not matter to you."

"And how do you know that? You used me, so how is it not my business?"

"Because, if you knew your life would be in danger. Better to keep you in the dark than risk your safety."

"My safety?" She scoffed. Fiona highly doubted that Michael's actions had any direct connection to her safety, "I don't believe you."

"Then who's to say you'll believe anything I tell you?" He sighed tiredly. This game was getting old quick. Silence awkwardly inhabited the room as she considered his statement.

"Fi, put the gun away." He placated, not because he was nervous about whether or not she would use it, but because he _knew _she would use it. If she was going to kill him, she would have done it already. But that didn't mean she wouldn't take out a kneecap or two.

"Everything you've ever said to me, everything you've ever done, has all been a lie-"

"Not everything-"

"Doesn't matter." Fiona continued, "Not anymore. Whatever _this _was… it's over now. You have to leave before anyone else finds out who you really are."

"The only way they're going to find out is if you tell them, Fiona."

Fiona's downfall when it came to Michael was that he had a knack for looking too damn sincere. Whether it was a true attribute or a trait he'd learned to emulate during his training, she couldn't be sure. Either way, she found herself drawn to him, trusting him. Had she just run into him on the street for the first time that morning, she would still trust him with her life. He just had that way about him. So when he gave her those soulful eyes, even half lidded from drug induced lethargy with his arms outstretched across the bed and tied, she couldn't help but fall in headfirst.

"And you're going to have to let me go sometime. Preferably, before I get sick all over your comforter."

Fiona watched Michael set his jaw and swallow against the nausea that rolled through him. Another nasty side effect of the drug she'd given him. For a moment, she felt a little bad for putting him through all this, but then she remembered that he'd lied to her. Fiona Glenanne did not take being lied to very well, considering the state in which she'd left her last boyfriend. From what she'd heard, Peter O'Malley still walked with a limp.

For now, though, she would have to put the matter on hold. Sighing tiredly, she pulled a knife out from underneath her pillow and proceeded to cut through the zip ties that held him.

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**_**Let me know what you think. I'm also open to any ideas of where you like to see this go :)_**


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